


The Lunar Cycle

by i_am_cloud



Category: American Werewolf in London (1981)
Genre: Adult Humor, Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Horror, Horror Comedy, Mentions of Sex, Romance, Some Fluff, Strong Language, Violent Deaths, Werewolves, heteroflexible ofc, horror romance, lesbian ofcs, plus-sized ofcs, polyamorous ofc, wlw ofcs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29395902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_cloud/pseuds/i_am_cloud
Summary: It should have been an ordinary backpacking trip. But when did life ever go as planned? Jack is dead, David is having nightmares, and Emmaline is left to deal with the aftermath. She's told the case of their attack has been closed. Under more normal circumstances, Emmaline would have accepted this. The awful feeling in her gut, however, makes her think that it's far from over.
Relationships: David Kessler/Original Female Character(s), Jack Goodman/Original Female Character(s), OFC x OFC





	1. Part One: Blue Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is rated M for: Strong language, adult humor, body horror, blood, gore, violent deaths, and mentions of sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: Except my OCs and original plotlines, I do not own the American Werewolf in London films or audio production.

** Part One: Blue Moon  **

_"I heard somebody whisper, 'please adore me.'_

_And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold."_

\- "Blue Moon," Lorenz Hart and Richard Rogers


	2. Prologue: Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Body horror, blood, gore, mention of off-screen deaths, and a violent on-screen death.
> 
> Disclaimer: Except my OCs and original plotlines, I do not own the American Werewolf in London films or audio production.

Bones crunching; limbs bending; joints stretching. He could feel it all, greedily swimming towards the surface. A fire that flamed and toiled, ignited by the silver light weaving its way towards his balled-up form. His nails dug into brutally scratched flesh, beads of crimson blossoming in the wake of their intense pressure.

" _The moon!_ " he bellowed, vocal cords desperately sobbing for relief. " _It burns,_ _it burns!_ "

There was clattering outside of his room - a padded place that was smaller than a matchbox, suffocating him in its confinement. It was hidden in the belly of the sanitarium, set aside for those who were prone to lash out or needed care that only the most experienced workers were able to provide.

After decades of isolation, he'd changed in many ways. Having to deal with what he had to go through month after month without the support he craved had worn down upon his sanity. There were times where he forgot why he had agreed to be admitted in the first place; of the immense harm he could inflict if not contained.

During the good days, he could taste the sweetest strawberries from his grandmother's garden and smell the cigarette smoke he and his brother would blow into the dying wind. Where he longed for the feel of dew encrusted mornings and the sound of dogs barking as they helped herd flocks of sheep.

Knuckles angrily rapped against the sturdy door.

"Well, I can't very well turn the moonlight off, can I?" came the warbled voice of a guard he hadn't seen before tonight. "Keep away from the window!"

Even if he'd done what had been commanded, he couldn't stop what was about to come.

He shrieked when his spine slammed against his back, sending him to his hands and knees, neck bent at an unnatural angle.

"Same here, you bloody lunatic."

Chatter about an escaped inmate, about where they could have gone, echoed throughout the long hallway – all ignoring the pure agony unfolding just beyond the single thing that had managed to keep him locked in for the past thirty years.

 _"Look out for him,"_ one of the voices crackled. " _Make sure he's found. Don't want anyone else getting hurt."_

Acid unforgivably coursed through his veins while a thick mound sluggishly slithered its way up his trachea. He coughed, heaving as his immune system attempted to protect him from the inevitable. Perhaps his heart would splatter to the floor, trembling as it took its last beat. Or an animal that had burrowed its way into his abdomen, stubbornly sinking its tiny claws into the lining, would tumble out amongst a steady stream of vomit.

The change. It was here. He couldn't hold it off, couldn't stop what had been part of him since that cursed August night.

Crouched in the darkest corner, all that was human hideously shifted into an impossible nightmare. Arms became powerful legs, a mouth became a grisly muzzle, and peach fuzz became coarse fur. Pointed ears twitched upon hearing hinges creak open before exasperated footsteps lumbered past the doorway.

"Hello, what's the matter?" questioned the guard towering above him.

Heavily panting, he set his piercing sight upon the oblivious guard's _thrumming_ pulse - its heat radiating invitingly. The emptiness of his stomach, hollow from a lack of fresh meat, rumbled like an oncoming thunderstorm.

First, there was irritation, blinding the guard from his hulking shape. And then, when he stood on all fours, horror – blue eyes filled with the same stank that covered him head to toe.

" _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!_ "

_Eat, eat, eat._

With lips drawn into a vicious snarl, globs of spittle grossly plopping onto the ground, he lunged.

Sharpened canines sunk into a vulnerable jugular while massive paws tore into a plump belly. He chewed through the guard's collarbone, growling as he vigorously shook what he'd clamped hold of.

Guts wetly showered around him - gooey chunks that he violently shoved aside to get to the organs he wished to devour. They squelched on his tongue, their juices fueling an instinctual, chaotic frenzy.

Satisfied with what had nourished him in ways that his dreams could not, a new hunger engulfed him.

_Escape._

After swallowing what was left of his gruesome feast, he did what he had been kept from for far too long: he fled – to find freedom and a world full of endless hunting grounds. Off he ran, a monstrosity with a single word imprinted on his mind: _consume._

* * *

Stan stared at the sanitarium's most dire mistake. No. _More_ than dire: _grave_.

Gazing at the drenched space before him, at what had yet to be thoroughly cleaned by the ignorant caretakers, the middle-aged man's mind replayed the events that had occurred the previous evening.

A guard, new and unaware of what laid in the now empty room, had lost his life - brutally mauled to death, his innards still caked between the cracks.

Knobby fingers nervously brushed through thinning hair, the reality of what had occurred beginning to set in. It was a sinking feeling Stan didn't want to experience again.

This. . . _thing_ couldn't be who he had befriended during primary school, who belted off-key ballads at the pub, who expertly nursed sick lambs back to optimal health.

_Madness._

Search parties had been sent out to look for him, taking mostly to the sky – scanning the area practically non-stop. There hadn't been a single sign of him, despite it surpassing twenty-four hours.

Stan had done what he could. He'd played the fumbling worker, stumbling over his words when he claimed to know nothing about the escaped inmate. But the most crucial thing he'd done was call his friend's brother to warn their village before it was too late. He could only hope that they made it to the safety of the Slaughtered Lamb, where candles illuminated the five-pointed star that faithfully protected its inhabitants.

When you're from East Procter, you heed the warnings of the creatures that roamed the moors, of the dangers ready to strike the moment you let your defenses down.

Shaking with unimaginable dread, images of what had been lost the last time his friend had gone on a bloodthirsty rampage came to Stan. Heaps of scarlet wool, shepherds split in two, cats warningly hissing at anyone who so much as glanced their way.

Why hadn't he come back? Why, when he wasn't a beast, did he not call Stan to pick him up?

At this point, there was no possible way for his friend to get out of this alive. By gun or the treatment of Stan's higher ups, he would be left to rot.

_Come back, Larry. Come back before you kill anyone else._

All Stan could do was wait and monitor the halls, praying that no further damage would be done before the full moon took its leave.

_God, help us._


End file.
